


Maybe We're From the Same Star

by problematic_pleasures



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alpha!T'Challa, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon Divergence, Get together fic, M/M, Omega!Erik, Self-Lubrication, Sort of soulmates AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematic_pleasures/pseuds/problematic_pleasures
Summary: T’Challa knows it from the moment in the alley.





	Maybe We're From the Same Star

**Author's Note:**

> an anonymous on tumblr requested "alpha top!t'challa" and tumblr user cutthroatbitchcult requested "bottom or omega erik," and this combines both of those! it's a bit of a soulmate type thing, wherein all alphas have mates destined for them. also a note, any time several words are in italics, it means they're speaking xhosa.
> 
> hope you guys like this one!

_“Baba, what does it mean?”_

_“It means you are strong, more so than others.”_

_T’Challa looks up at his father, who seems to grow more tired every day. “And Shuri?”_

_“She is a beta. But she is strong as well.” Shuri is a baby, but her feistiness has already made an impact. “T’Challa, you must listen very closely. As an alpha, there is a mate out there for you.”_

_“A mate? Like mama for you?”_

_T’Chaka laughs and runs his hand over T’Challa’s close shaven hair. “Yes, my son. Like your mother is to me.”_

_“Will I love my mate the way you love mama?”_

_“And more,” T’Chaka assures._

_“How will I know?” T’Challa asks with all the childlike wonder of his age._

_“You simply will.” T’Chaka chuckles at T’Challa’s young pout. “I know, my son, I know. Not the answer you want to hear. But it is the instinct Bast has instilled in us, a gift granted to us like the heart-shaped herb. Your mate will make you stronger, a better person. Even if it may not seem like it at first.”_

_T’Challa watches his father expression shift from simple to fondly exasperated, and thinks back to the story his mama told him of how his parents came together. “What if I am wrong?”_

_“You will not be wrong, T’Challa. You will know.” The king says it again, more firmly. He looks down at his son and holds his gaze, steady and unrelenting. “It may not make perfect sense, at first. It may seem strange. But trust in Bast, yes?”_

_“Yes, Baba, of course.”_

_“Trust in Bast, and you will be rewarded with the greatest love you will ever know.”_

_T’Challa nods seriously. “Of course.”_

 

 

 

T’Challa knows it from the moment in the alley; he can’t see the man’s face but he can _smell_ him, and the ring dangling from his neck only confirms T’Challa innate reaction. When N’Jadaka—Erik—walks into the throne room, handcuffed and head held high, T’Challa barely reigns in a snarl. He wants to possess this man, wants to punish him, wants to protect and save and claim Erik Stevens. He wants it _all_.

He approaches Erik under the guise of threat. T’Challa puffs out his chest and narrows his eyes. He’s unsurprised when Erik meets his posturing with only a smirk. He gets close, murmurs, _“the only reason I do not kill you where you stand is because I know who you are,”_ and takes a deep inhale. This close, his cheek brushing Erik’s, he can scent the other man and take in the ripe sweetness hidden beneath layers of cologne and years of pretending. He can tell with only a few sharp whiffs that Erik denies this side of himself as often as possible and puts himself forward as a beta.

T’Challa wonders if Ross knows his agent is an omega; he wonders if W’Kabi has scented it, or if he is blinded only by vengeance. T’Challa wonders if _anyone_ has picked up on it, and decides to intervene before they can. He takes Erik by the arm, grip firm, and pushes him toward the door.

“T’Challa?” His mother asks from beside the throne; behind her, Shuri watches uncertainly.

“I wish to speak with Erik in private,” T’Challa replies without looking back. He keeps his eyes trained on his cousin.

Erik’s eyes narrow, and his mouth starts to open.

“We will discuss this in private,” T’Challa hisses to Erik alone. Finally, the other man’s eyes widen and T’Challa relishes even the small amount of surprise. He waits until Erik nods before continuing to tug him from the throne room. As they reach the door, Okoye steps forward with another Dora Milaje, but T’Challa waves her off. “In private,” he says again, meeting Okoye’s suspicious gaze.

She steps back, lips pursed.

T’Challa is keenly aware of the eyes on him as he all but drags Erik from the throne room. He takes him down a few hallways, only a little shocked when Erik never once tries to break free of his hold. Eventually they come upon an office, mostly unused. T’Challa pushes Erik inside and locks the door behind them.

“What’s your play here, cuz?” Erik asks in his drawling, self-satisfied tone. “You think you got me figured out, just after a few little sniffs?” Erik sneers at the window that overlooks Wakanda, and T’Challa watches his reflection. “Ain’t gonna back down.”

T’Challa growls and strides forward without thinking. He reaches out and forces Erik against the window he’s smirking at, listens as his cheek hits the vibranium glass and he lets out a grunt of pain. The metal of the cuffs should dig into Erik’s wrists, made worse by T’Challa’s bruising grip. He’s not one for overdone displays of strength or brutality, but something about Erik—his scent, his attitude, all of him—riles T’Challa up worse than he’s ever known.

“You will submit,” T’Challa hisses against Erik’s ear. “You know you will.” Erik squirms against him and his ass brushes over the erection pressing at the front of T’Challa royal robes. “I knew from the moment in the alley. You are mine. Can you not tell?”

Erik struggles then, writhes in his hold and bears his own teeth. “I don’t belong to no one.”

T’Challa holds Erik’s wrists with one hand and brings the other to his cousin’s neck. He grips his nape, lets his nails bite into the skin and hold him in place. “You will belong to me,” he snarls, before tilting Erik’s head to the side to secure his teeth around the juncture of neck and shoulder. He bites into the skin there, marvels at the bumps and scars under his tongue, and digs in until blood rushes to the surface.

Erik cries out and arches his back, serving only to grind against T’Challa growing erection.

“Your father did not tell you about this?” T’Challa asks in sharp disbelief. “Did not tell you of your true status? Did not tell you of the alpha who would claim you, one day?” He kisses the bite mark he’s left, and Erik shudders under his lips. “Of course, he could not know it would be me. But surely—?”

“He told me, alright?” Erik glares over his shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I gotta accept it.”

T’Challa stills, and Erik mirrors him. “I will not force you.”

Erik scoffs. “You sure about that, _my king_?” He says the last two words in Xhosa and this time, T’Challa is the one left shivering. The words are low and the pronunciation flawless.

“You want the throne,” T’Challa says instead. He hides his face against Erik’s neck, resists the urge to tease the already bruised skin. “As mate to the alpha king, it would be yours.” He kisses the tender spot again and inhales the sticky-sweet scent he’s learned to associate with omegas. It’s stronger coming off Erik, but T’Challa isn’t sure if it’s because of arousal, or because the man is his mate.

“I don’t want _just_ the throne I want—?”

“You want revenge on a misguided man who is already dead.” T’Challa lets go of Erik’s neck to trail his hand to the front of the man’s clothes. He undoes the vest over his chest and tears it off once the buckles are undone. Erik makes an annoyed sound deep in his throat but doesn’t protest. “I am king now, and I am not my father.” He drags his hand across Erik’s thin blue shirt and maps the bumps under his touch. “Accept my claim.”

“N’what? You’ll just listen to what I gotta say? I killed people before. I ain’t a good person.”

T’Challa smirks against Erik’s neck. “I was once told it is hard for a good man to be king. Perhaps you are exactly who I need to rule at my side.”

Finally, some of the tension bleeds from Erik’s frame. He still twists and turns in T’Challa’s hold but he’s smirking again when he looks over his shoulder. T’Challa holds his gaze as he undoes his own robes, lets them fall open and expose his bare chest underneath, his loose pants tenting considerably with evidence of his attraction. Erik braces himself against the glass and pushes his ass out, and T’Challa takes the hint. He unbuttons and unzips the camouflage print pants and drag them down Erik’s legs.

“Do you accept my claim, then? Hm, N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu?” T’Challa looks down between them and brings two fingers to Erik’s asshole. He’s already slick and wet, ready for T’Challa. Another gift of Bast, perhaps—the thought makes T’Challa chuckle. He sinks in to the second knuckle and revels in Erik’s shaking gasp. He thrusts in fast and hard and withdraws just as crudely. The motions make wet, lewd sounds that blend with Erik’s gritted, breathless moans. “N’Jadaka,” T’Challa growls. “Do you accept my claim?”

“Fine,” Erik snaps back as his fists clench where they’re still secured at his back.

“Mm,” T’Challa tsks and shakes his head. “Not good enough. N’Jadaka, do you accept my claim?”

“Yes!” Erik cries out, teeth still clenched, as T’Challa brushes over his prostate.

“Yes, what?” T’Challa asks as he removes his fingers. Pinning Erik against the glass with his elbow, he uses his clean hand to shove his pants down and hook the waistband under his sac. He wipes the excess slick from his fingers onto his cock, smearing it liberally around. Satisfied, he presses his clean palm against Erik’s back; he doesn’t shove him or hold him especially hard, but Erik doesn’t struggle.

T’Challa brings his cock to Erik’s entrance. “I will not enter you until you accept my claim. Properly, this time.”

T’Challa watches Erik’s teeth clench hard enough to hurt as he fights instincts he’s built up over his entire life. It takes time, so much that T’Challa’s head clears fractionally and he almost can’t believe he’s in this situation. Erik’s heaving chest has settled and his breathing is steadier. T’Challa doesn’t goad him further, though the temptation is there. He waits it out.

“I accept your claim, King T’Challa.” Erik admits it in a whispering rush, wind whistling through his teeth.

It’s good enough for T’Challa, though.

T’Challa thrusts hard and fast and watches as Erik’s body lights up for him. The stoic façade tries to stay in place, but it’s almost comically easy to undo the cocky demeanor with well-placed thrusts and touches. He pushes into Erik’s body as far as he can go and listens to Erik pant, wet and gasping against the glass. It fogs under his mouth, condensation dripping down it. Erik’s gold teeth gleam from the sun outside and T’Challa wants to taste them.

He shoves forward and wraps his arm around Erik’s front, puts weight on his neck and grips his chin, forces him to look at T’Challa. Erik resists for a moment but after another especially deep thrust his mouth drops open, and he’s T’Challa’s for the taking. His thrusts pick up speed, shallow and sharp, as he claims Erik’s lips in a kiss. Erik whines into it and his whole body thrives under the onslaught of attention.

T’Challa memorizes the taste and feeling of Erik’s mouth, but pays special attention to the chilling touch of gold. The teeth aren’t sharp, gently rounded instead, and they feel odd but _right_. The metallic taste of them is addictive, and T’Challa chases more of it until Erik breaks the kiss with a sloppy sound, his lips wet and open.

“Will you come for me?” T’Challa asks as he drinks in Erik’s debauched expression. “In plain view of my kingdom—our kingdom… will you come for me?”

Erik’s eyes shut and he grinds back against T’Challa thrust. In a voice so quiet it’s almost nonexistent, T’Challa hears him murmur, _“yes, my king,”_ in Xhosa again.

_“Good,”_ T’Challa replies. He lets go of Erik’s chin and drops it to his exposed cock and jerks him off instead. He strokes him fast and hard, briefly distracted by the different feeling. Erik is uncut and thick where T’Challa is longer, his foreskin gone. It’s strange and fascinating and T’Challa aches to get his mouth around his lover. He groans against Erik’s neck and inhales his scent. _“Do it,”_ he demands, _“come for me, prince.”_

Erik keens, almost a growl, and his cock pulses in T’Challa’s grasp. His come splatters against the window and the rhythmic tension in his body wrings T’Challa’s own orgasm from him. He thrusts jerkily into Erik’s body a few times more as he spills himself before falling still. He doesn’t withdraw, even as he softens, instead relishing the slick heat around his prick.

“So, what?” Erik asks a few minutes later. They still haven’t moved but T’Challa has dimmed the windows to protect their privacy, now that the moment is over. “Now m’just gonna be your consort?”

T’Challa frowns at the bitter tone but doesn’t rise to the bait. With his orgasm went his heated fury, and he feels more level-headed than he has in days. “You will rule with me. No more, no less.” He finally steps back and lets his soft cock fall from Erik’s abused hole. He looks around the office and reaches for a handkerchief left abandoned on the nearby desk. He wipes Erik clean the tosses the cloth aside. He helps him redress, save for the vest which is unsalvageable. The blue shirt is stretched out and faded and is as unbecoming as it is attractive.

T’Challa steps back and observes Erik. He is still flushed high in the cheeks and his hair is a mess. The scent of sweat and sex clings to them both, and T’Challa can’t bring himself to be ashamed.

“I do not know what it is you want out of the throne, but I can guess.” T’Challa says when Erik makes it clear he’s only going to glare. “I have been told by others that it is time for a change as well. I think you may have much to discuss with Nakia.”

Erik remains unresponsive, save for a glimmer in his eye that reveals his curiosity.

“You have accepted my claim. That is not something to go back on.”

“You gonna let me outta these cuffs them?”

T’Challa motions for him to turn around, and undoes the vibranium cuffs. Then, almost without thinking, he rubs the abused skin beneath them, as if in apology. “’You will not attack anyone?”

“Nah.” Erik says and his tone is aloof but still genuine.

“You _did_ bring us Klaue. Many will regard you as a hero.” T’Challa steps back and watches Erik rubs his own wrists, watch him scowl at the faint red welts left there. “W’Kabi in particular.”

Erik shrugs. “I told you, though. I ain’t a good person.”

T’Challa finally moves toward the door, pleased when Erik follows behind him. “I told you,” he counters, “that may be exactly what I need.” He shrugs, then. “We shall see. There is much to discuss.” They stop outside the door, in the still-empty hallway. T’Challa watches Erik, and Erik watches him right back. Leaning forward slowly—because despite what just happened, this man is still a loose cannon, and T’Challa still doesn’t know what he’s getting into—he moves to kiss Erik.

 Erik tilts his head and accepts the kiss smoothly, even a quirk to his lips though it feels more sarcastic than not. The kiss is simple and chaste, but something inside T’Challa slots into place suddenly. Not unlike the moment in the alley when he knew Erik was his mate, the moment just feels right. Like a chapter ending and leading into a new one.

“C’mon, _my king_ ,” Erik taunts. “They’ll be expecting us, won’t they?”

T’Challa knows this man will cause trouble, and yet he trusts in this. He trusts Bast with this gift, even if others will call him foolish. He falls into step with Erik; as they reach the doors guarded by Dora Milaje, he lays his hand over the small of Erik’s back.

“Not gonna be easy,” Erik remarks as the Dora watch him carefully.

T’Challa nods.

When T’Challa says nothing else, Erik shakes his head with a laugh. “Alright then. Let’s do this.”

T’Challa looks at the Dora and they stand aside, and moments later the doors swing open. No one has left, it seems as though the throne room has been frozen for however long Erik and T’Challa were gone. Queen Mother looks over first, then Shuri, Nakia, Okoye, and W’Kabi, the rest of the elders.

“T’Challa what is this?” Queen Mother demands. “Why is he still here?”

“Because of who he is.” T’Challa looks over to Erik. _“Tell them who you are,”_ he says softly. Erik’s gaze flits to him, and when he grins his gold teeth glint almost menacingly. T’Challa never takes his hand off Erik’s back, even as Shuri and Nakia both eye him wearily. Queen Mother’s eyes are wet as she watches, and the rest of the elders lean forward with interest. Erik opens his mouth, smirking all the while. In an odd way, T’Challa almost feels pride for his mate, even though he knows what will be said will not be easy to accept.

In Xhosa, crystal clear, Erik speaks.

_“I am N’Jadaka, son of Prince N’Jobu.”_


End file.
